Because the cold is starting to feel a little less painful and a little more invigorating. And it’s blessedly impossible to think about anything past the sensations on my skin and the challenge the water presents.
I ease my fingers off the wood. It’s probably inadvisable to do this without a wetsuit or a swim buoy, but the salt pond is warmer than the ocean, May’s been above-average, and twenty minutes of discomfort won’t kill me. If anything, it mightfixme.
And I need this—needsomething.
So I force my body into a slow and steady stroke away from the dock.
Without a downpour to obscure it,the exterior of Gold’s Oysters looks even cuter than it didyesterday. And now that I’ve met Grayson, it makes evenlesssense.
The flowers on the office’s porch are springy and vivid, and small birds flit at the bird-feeder. Several wind chimes I didn’t notice before hang from the covered porch, off-key melodies singing in the soft breeze, their stained glass designs reflecting the gentle sunlight.
An older woman bustles out the office door and stops short at the top of the stairs, big, green eyes smeared with shimmery blue eyeshadow scanning me from loosely curled hair to white leather sneakers without a hint of subtlety. She wears a colorful cardigan stitched with crocheted flowers, and I instantly know I’ve found the source of the butterflies and bird-feeders.
A delighted smile warms her grandmotherly face when I reach the top step. “You must be the new phone girl,” she says, like she’s just found a pot of gold.
Phone girl? Is that what Grayson’s calling me?
I’m pretty sureshemeans nothing by it, so I smile back and offer my hand. “I’m the new Social Media Director. The phone’s only half the job.”
Her fingers are frigid—like every grandmother’s fingers, ever—when she shakes my hand.
“My, my. Hecertainlydidn’t say how pretty you are,” she says with a pleased chuckle.
I hold my smile, because how does one respond tothat?
She prattles on. “My name is Joy. I’m the bookkeeper here, and let me tell you—” She pulls me in with a surprisingly strong grip, and like she’s sharing a secret, loudly whispers, “These Gold boys are quite the catch.”
It’s getting harder to hold the smile, because I think she’s trying to sweeten up my boss and the jerk of a farm owner, and her grip won’t allow me to escape.
“Of course, it’s obvious how handsome they are. But they’regoodboys, you know? The kind that make for great husbands and?—"
“Quack.”
Dave cuts her off, appearing from the office door that’s now held open by Grayson. The interruption makes Joy whirl, and I’m able to gently extricate myself.
Grayson’s amber eyes settle on me like a heavy weight. The kind that wants to grind me into fine dust until I disappear. He peruses me with the same unabashed openness as Joy, so I scan him right back. He’s wearing the same brown work pants as yesterday. But with the sun out, he’s sans rain jacket, and I find myself wishing for a downpour, because he’s wearing a worn, light blueGold’s Oysterstee with the sleeves cut off, revealing arms I can’t help but notice. Tanned skin, muscled shoulders, thick forearms, veins visible beneath a smattering of dark hair. It only gets worse when I trace one of those veins to his bicep, which flexes as he holds the door open.
I drag my eyes back to his face to find a knowing smirk, and I want to tumble down the stairs. Instead, I set my shoulders and lift an unimpressed brow.
Grayson Gold has hot-guy arms. So what? They’re a dime a dozen in Boston.
Oblivious to the tension, Joy claps her fingertips together in glee. “Well, I’ll let you two get to know each other. Lovely to meet you—” She waits for my name.
“Eliza.”
“Ah! Pretty name for a pretty girl.” She sends a not-very-sly look at Grayson before waddling down the stairs.
He shakes his head and steps out onto the porch, letting the door swing shut. “So, you’ve met Joy.” He sets his handson his hips in a way that puts those annoying arms on full display.
“She seems nice.”
His scruffy face is missing the streak of grease from yesterday, though his dark, textured hair already looks stiff with salt. He reminds me of a bear, or maybe he’s just so much more rugged than the clean-swept finance men I’m used to that my brain defaults to animal comparisons. In the sunlight, his irises seem to glow, almost…gold.
Comes with the last name, I suppose.
Those orbs settle on me again, raking apath from my face to my hair, and down across my body. Self-consciousness pricks my skin at hissecondevaluation, and I remind myself I look presentable. The curls are cooperating today, my black, wide-strapped tank-top is lint-free, and my dark wash jeans hug my hips perfectly.
It’s more casual than I’d normally wear, but I’d gotten the vibe yesterday that dress pants and heels don’t quite belong.
